A Ghost You Can't Control
by itsavolcano
Summary: When she finally found him in the kitchen, the sight stopped her in her tracks. All words dried up on her tongue. Patrick Jane was sitting at their kitchen table, but he wasn't the man she'd kissed good night. - Post-post Blue Bird; Because I really really REALLY miss that vest.


Because I want that waistcoat back in Season 7, and I want it for real, not in a flashback (speculative fear). This story kinda went all over the place, but here it is.

This story is also it for me for awhile until finish my other IRL writing project. Come find me on Twitter at itsavolcano where I'll undoubtedly rant and sob over the struggles of writing my screenplay.

A Ghost You Can't Control

_The scariest part is letting go_  
><em>'Cause love is a ghost you can't control<em>  
><em>I promise you the truth can't hurt us now<em>  
><em>So let the words slip out of your mouth<em>  
><em>("The Words"; Christina Perri)<em>

A Ghost You Can't Control

It was the silence that woke Lisbon. She'd grown used to Jane's gentle shifting in their bed as the sky faded from purple to gold. If the overly friendly birds didn't wake her with their incessant chirping, Patrick Jane did with his early morning ambling throughout the apartment. A long battle with insomnia made him the last to turn in at night and the first to rise. He tried to be quiet and let her sleep, but often she would sense he'd left the bed and wake shortly after. But it seemed this time was different.

Lisbon ran her fingers over the empty space next to her, somewhat surprised to find it so cold. He'd been awake for a while. They were in between cases, so if he wasn't plotting and planning some scheme to ensnare a killer, he must have something weightier on his mind. Tugging the bedcovers from her legs, she padded her way through the apartment.

When she finally found him in the kitchen, the sight stopped her in her tracks. All words dried up on her tongue.

Patrick Jane was sitting at their kitchen table, but he wasn't the man she'd kissed good night. His blond hair was brushed back from his forehead in perfect waves, his face was smooth and free of stubble. More importantly—the part that had shocked her most of all—he was wearing a new charcoal gray vest over a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With eyes focused on some distant point, he sat with his legs crossed at the knees, teacup raised to his lips. It was a sight Lisbon had seen countless times, a sight she had longed for during their two years apart. But now, at six in the morning on a Tuesday in Austin, the sight left her cold.

As the seconds ticked by, rooted to the spot in the kitchen entryway, she wondered if the last year had really happened. Maybe Patrick Jane had never returned to her and she was still in Washington with only a box of letters and fading memories to hold on to. Maybe the last year was only a brief dream cycle, conjured to ease her loneliness, and this was reality creeping in just before her alarm sounded. Would God be so cruel? The panic began to take hold of her and she struggled to level out her breathing.

On her sharp intake of air, Jane turned his head, teacup still held halfway to his lips. She braced herself. Ever the magician, the Jane of three years ago would have shielded himself behind a sarcastic comment and a quick flourish of movement. But instead when he looked at her, her relief was immediate. His eyes were filled with such a warm and welcoming love, he had clearly been waiting for the moment when she would stumble into the kitchen, her hair mused from sleep and nightshirt slipping from her shoulder. This smiling Jane wasn't part of some dream. In that moment the two sides of the man slipped into place and for the first time in all the years she'd known him he looked thoroughly content. He looked whole.

"Good morning." He stood and pulled a mug from the cupboard before moving to the coffeemaker. "You look like you need this." She only shook her head and set the offered mug aside. Then, without comment, she pulled him to her, tucked her head under his chin and breathed in the spicy scent of his aftershave.

"Teresa?" There was a touch of concern in his voice as he smoothed his hands down the length of her back, drawing her closer to him.

"For about fifteen seconds, I thought I was still asleep," she mumbled against the hollow of his throat.

When he frowned, confused, she ran her fingers over the buttons of his vest.

"Ah, I see." He smiled softly, a bit of his worry receding as she looked up at him.

"What brought this about?"

"I thought it was time," he shrugged and maneuvered them back to the wooden kitchen chair, snagging her coffee cup along the way. With a gentle tug, he pulled her to his lap. "I take it you're surprised?"

"That's an understatement, Jane." Lisbon curled her hand along his neck, fingers dancing along the soft curls there. "I thought one of us was in a fugue state."

He gave her a squeeze, his warm hands moving along her bare thighs. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, I'm happy for you." They had never explicitly discussed why he'd stopped wearing his three-piece suits, but she sensed it'd had something to do with the end of his vengeance. A faint tug of concern played at the back of her mind as she wondered if he was symbolically buttoning himself up again—donning his armor for a battle she didn't see. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, her brow creased as she struggled to voice her confusion and concerns. Sensing her hesitation, Jane handed her the coffee cup. She smiled and rolled her eyes before taking a long drink.

"What's on your mind, Lisbon?" Jane's voice was soft and careful, all of his attention focused on her. She had seen him like this throughout the years—warm and concerned, soft and playful, but always in moments so fleeting she'd never been able to catalogue or define them. Now she knew, this was what Patrick Jane looked like when he was in love. Her heartbeat began to even out. He wasn't running from her. This wardrobe change was something else, entirely.

"I thought…" she started, then stopped. "Why now? What made you start dressing like this again? When you came back, you were all…" She waved a hand the air, unsure how best to classify his wrinkled, unshaved state. Although, she mused, the years in the Venezuelan sun had done wonders for him, having turned his skin a warm gold. Walking into the conference room at the FBI building all those months ago, he'd looked beautiful, his sun-streaked hair highlighting his shining green eyes. And then there was the way he'd pulled her into his arms for a crushing hug…

"Island chic," he offered, grinning.

"Sure, _that._" She took another gulp of coffee.

"Would you think I'm crazy if I said I missed it?" He was wary, his voice low as he absently traced patterns on her smooth thigh. His ring finger was bare, the tan line almost completely faded.

"Of course not." She caught his hand in hers and stopped him in the middle of a figure-eight. "I think you're crazy for entirely different reasons."

He threw his head back and let out a surprised, throaty chuckle. Lisbon smiled, his laugh warming her. Then she drew her eyes down along the planes of his chest, her fingers once again moving along the shiny black buttons of his vest.

"I'm just surprised, is all. I always knew your suits were important to you given that you _slept_ in them."

"Truth be told, I didn't do much sleeping back then, Teresa," he said. "Besides, I've rediscovered the benefits of sleeping in very little clothing." He pulled her even closer to him and pressed his lips her exposed shoulder. She shivered. Maybe sitting in his lap wasn't wise. Maybe if she put distance between them, her mind would clear and she could regain the footing she'd lost the moment she stumbled into the kitchen.

"I am trying to have a serious conversation, Jane." She attempted to extract herself from his hold, but he only held her tighter.

"I assure you, Lisbon, I am very serious." Again, he pressed his lips to her skin. She pushed her hands against his chest and he looked at her, saw the questions and worry in her eyes. Letting out a gentle sigh he nodded, conceding to her unspoken concern. She wanted a serious conversation, and he was no longer in a place to deny Teresa Lisbon much of anything.

"During my…" he worked his jaw back and forth before swallowing hard. Even after three years, the words still stuck in his throat. "During my hunt for Red John, the suits were important. I found comfort in the structure. In a way, they reminded me of what I needed to do. They were a part of my past life, the con life. I didn't want to forget who I was—a fraud who'd got his family killed. And I didn't want to forget what I'd needed to do." He sighed, suddenly weary. She nodded, encouraging him to continue, understanding the importance of this moment.

"After, on the island, I felt… unfettered. I felt free. The suits were no longer necessary, not to mention I stuck out like a sore thumb. The eccentric American in a three-piece." The distant memory brought a faint smile.

"So then began your experiment in 'island chic'?" She raised an eyebrow, playfully.

"There was even a sarong at one point." He gave her a wink and Lisbon laughed at the unexpected image. Then, his tone somber but his eyes still bright, he continued, "And when I returned—I didn't realize it at the time—but I was still a broken man. I was still letting my past color my future, letting my fear stop me from being happy. I was still just pretending, but this time I was falling for my own con." He tipped her chin up, his thumb brushing along the fullness of her bottom lip. "Like a fool, I thought I was moving on. But obviously, that wasn't true."

"And now? Do you feel you've moved on, now?" Lisbon sensed she knew the answer, but she wanted to hear it. He'd opened up to her so much over the last few months, and had finally given voice to so many of the fears and concerns he'd kept bottled up during their time in California. She wanted him to understand that nothing he could say would make her leave. Together, they were learning to just _be_. She was his soft place to fall, and he was hers.

He drew in a steady breath and nodded.

"A part of me will always be that broken man, still afraid that he'll lose what he loves the most." He tucked her hand in his, resting it against his chest. "But I feel stronger now. Angela is gone, Charlotte is gone. I've done what I said I would always do when they were taken from me. And somewhere along the way, I came out on the other side and there you were, beautiful and strong. My lifeline."

Their fingers still laced together, he reached up and brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "So, to answer your question, yes, I do feel I've moved on. But instead of completely abandoning my past, I've slowly learned to take it with me. To pick out the pieces that don't sting and tuck those away for a rainy day when I want to remember Charlotte riding her tricycle through the house at full speed, or Angela angry and bailing Danny out from jail in her wedding dress. And I want to remember all the times I was at my darkest depths and you pulled me back to shore."

Lisbon swallowed a soft sob, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "And the suits are part of that?" she asked once she was able to speak.

"The suits are part of that," he nodded, his arm curling back around her waist. "Plus, I have to admit, I was growing tired of that rumpled look. I thought I should up my wardrobe game now that I have the FBI's sharpest shooter on my arm."

Lisbon snorted a laugh and rolled her eyes at his teasing words before running her hands down his chest.

"Although," he added, a gleam in his eye, "I must admit, I am partial to these wool socks." He tugged up a pant leg, revealing the socks she had given him after their first case with the FBI.

"I need to order you more of those, that one pair is probably worn through," she teased. "Not to mention they sort of clash with the rest of your ensemble."

"Nonsense, I love these socks." He pretended to be offended. After a quiet moment, he added, "I am sorry I startled you. I just decided today was the day, I didn't think…"

Lisbon shook her head, stopping his apology, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He had nothing to be sorry for, she was happy to see he was healing. And if that healing led to a return of Patrick Jane in a vest, well, she wasn't about to stifle his process.

"You definitely know how to wear a well-tailored suit," she said, slipping her fingertips under the buttons of his vest and shirt, nails lightly grazing his skin. He inhaled sharply at the contact. "What time is it?" she asked, turning her face up to him again.

"Hmm?" He glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the microwave. "Nearly 7:30."

"Oh, that's too bad." Lisbon slipped from his lap and stood between his legs.

"Why's that?" Jane's gaze was growing hot and dark as Lisbon reached for him and pulled him to his feet.

"Because we're going to be late for work." She raised herself to her toes and pressed her lips along the underside of his jaw, against his throat.

"Oh?" He gripped her shoulders, steadying her. "And why are we going to be late for work, Lisbon?"

"Because," she led him back to the hallway, her fingers pushing the buttons of his vest from the holes.

"Oh, Agent Lisbon," Jane's voice took on a scandalized tone as he leaned down, his breath warm against her ear, "are you trying to tell me, it was my three-piece suits that _flipped your switch_ all along?"

"Oh, definitely." She looked up at him, stopping at the last button, her eyes wide and full of lust. "And are you trying to tell me that you of all people had _no _idea?"

"Oh, definitely," Jane echoed. "I definitely knew." He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, his hands moving to rest on her ass before scooping her up. In one fluid movement, she wrapped her legs around his waist and he groaned against her lips, nearly tripping into the bedroom.

Without a doubt, they were going to be late for work.

FIN


End file.
